


Rip Off

by kissing2cousins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bombs, Flat mates, Frustrated John, M/M, Miscommunication, Sexual Advances, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Tension, Swimming Pools, Towels, shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:29:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3224099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissing2cousins/pseuds/kissing2cousins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is still confused after the intense meeting with Moriarty in the pool.  He's unsure why he can't keep the memory from his day to day thoughts until Sherlock finally acts to end the tension that had built between the two flat mates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rip Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thequeergiraffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/gifts).



> Let me know what you guys think. Thank you to all you other Johnlock fans for the inspiration and encouragement! There will be more to come:)

ADF

 

Having another man rip your clothes off in a darkened pool was one thing, John finally decided, but having Sherlock Holmes do it was another. 

The incident with the maniac Moriarty was still fresh in the soldier’s mind.  He could smell the chlorine of the pool water, hear the squeak of his shoes on the slightly damp pool deck, and still feel the disconcerting weight of the bomb packed vest strapped to his torso, beneath the heavy lined parka.  The memory was never far behind him, never fully put out of his mind, always lingering on the precipice of his consciousness—for reasons that the doctor was frankly beginning to question. 

As John lingered behind his desk, in the small medical office where he worked as a locum, killing time between a lull in his patient schedule for that lazy Friday afternoon, he tried to put the memory off and think of something else.  Surfing the web was useless, the man’s face was there too, his own slightly obscured over the consulting detectives shoulder or half cut out of the frame—but always present, in some capacity.  He tried reading the newspaper, but the dark curled head of the bright eyed detective was there too.  He tried grabbing a coffee in the staff room, but the hushed giggles from the female nurses and his peers, who tried not to make eye contact with the friend of the bedazzling new London genius sex-magnet, only fueled his mounting irritation.  There wasn’t much of anywhere anymore that the doctor could go that wasn’t buzzing with the adventures that the two flatmates had shared, all of them enamored by the whimsical dark curls that swept over the dark foreboding brows of man, who was genius, and still so societally inadequate that many would cringe if they ever were graciously gifted with a chance encounter with their hero and he was prompted to open his mouth.

The doctor’s office was quiet.  There was only the hum of the non-stop traffic of London droning outside the window, the sound of the heater, and the tapping of his pencil that he was pensively flicking on the desk top beside his phone and laptop.  Sherlock it would seem was a persistent thought that was better dealt with than left to brood, festering at the back of his brain like an infection eating away at his sanity.  Why was it that he could still smell the pool, the tang of his own sweat on his skin, the barely there waft of cigarette smoke that clung to those dark curls and that black suit jacket?  Why was it that he could still feel the reef of the other’s hands tearing the jacket and bomb-vest from his body, the sound of his rasping breath—escalated all of a sudden…why?

John thought that Ella, his therapist, would be scribbling in her fancied bubble-like scrawl on her notepad if she were able to hear the thoughts swirling in his brain like an over muddled mojito.  If he straightened his spine, he might be able to glance at the page—her handwriting was always large enough to read from where he usually sat in her office, even from upside down—what might it say?  _You’re a fool, John…_

A glance at the large round face of his clock on the wall told the doctor that he still had fifteen minutes to kill before his next patient, even if they happened to be early for their appointment.  It felt like a stab in the gut—why was that?  He felt his brows come down over his eyes and his own lips purse in thought, as his hand snagged his coffee, dark and black in the plain white mug before him on the desk top.  He brought it to his mouth and slurped.  It was hot, too much so to take the kind of draught his body desired.  The steam that wafted upwards left the tip of his nose damp.  He sipped again and let it return to its place on the desk, beside his own notepad, the pencil, the closed laptop, and his phone, feeling slightly disappointed that he couldn’t drown himself in the dark caffeinated liquid that tasted of cheap beans brewed too strong.

Ella would think, he theorized in that absent moment of thought, that he should be more concerned about the bombs, about the lunatic that had fed him lines through an ear piece to regurgitate at his friend, who had threatened to end him to spite Sherlock.  Ella wouldn’t say that though—no, she was a shrink—she would simply lead him to that conclusion, like a mother taking the hand of child.  Surely he should be concerned about all those things.  The danger, the threats, the red laser beam dot between the curls above those intense piercing eyes.  Instead, he cared more about the hands…about the accelerated breathing, and the stuttered words after Moriarty’s departure.

Why had Sherlock…?  Why did he…?  Why was it that the thought of his flatmate ripping his clothes off in a darkened pool aroused him?

There was a knock at his door.  “Come in.” he called, after clearing his throat and adjusting the crotch of his jeans behind the cover of his desk.  There was the nurse, peaking in at him through the half opened door, announcing finally that his patient had arrived.

The doctor busied himself with what doctor’s do, occupying his overwhelmed brain with the mundane tasks that the medical office brought in for him.  He finished his day at the office, gone out to eat, and flirted with the pretty waitress before catching a cab home to 221B Baker Street.  Once home he congratulated himself when he got there, realizing very belatedly that he hadn’t thought of the pool or clothes be ripped off for the last five and a half hours.  Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as he had come to think.  It didn’t mean anything.

The flat was dark and quiet.  A single lamp on the crowded desk lit the main room.  The kitchen and hallway were dark.  Sherlock was out?  John smiled— _wait, why am I smiling?_ He shook off the thought, gave his face a cleansing rub of his hands, and decided that a shower was in order.  With the other man out of the flat the doctor could take his time, revel in the peace of his absence, and maybe watch some crappy telly without genius commentary pointing out exactly why it was crappy every-other scene.

John went to his room, tossed his jacket on the mattress and grabbing the bottom hem of his striped sweater, pulled it up and over his head.  The flat was cool, he could feel it as the shirt tails of his dress shirt lifted with the movement.  The sweater joined the jacket on the bed and then he began to undo the buttons of the navy dress shirt.  Not wanting to iron again this week the doctor made the effort of hanging the shirt up on a hook behind the door and then left the room. 

A shower would be nice.  The flat was cool, he could feel his bare skin prickling with goosebumps as he walked down the hallway to the bathroom, and his feet registered the difference in temperature between the floorboards and the tile acutely.  John turned the taps on a little hotter than he normally preferred and dropped his trousers and pants in one motion, kicking both aside as he stepped under the stream of water. 

Steam rolled off his skin as he went methodically about his routine, soaping his hair and body, before rinsing all at once.  He had intended to take longer than usual—Sherlock was gone, he could linger and take his time—but suddenly he found himself out of things to do and he had spent no more time than he normally would have.  Defiant of this occurrence the doctor refused to get out.  He stood there, under the streaming waters spray, blinking the droplets from his eyes.

Suddenly the curtain was raked back.  There was an unflattering scream that was quickly followed by a string of curses, as the corners of that wicked mouth quirked upwards and those variscite eyes downcast for a split second, before locking with his own startled gaze.  “I need you, John.” The man said, mouth still quirked and those eyes crinkled at the corners in a comical display of a smile.

The doctor swore again and then snatched back at the curtain that Sherlock refused to release, managing to cover himself somewhat.  “Piss off, I’m busy.”

Sherlock’s eyes seemed to crinkle one degree more before the smile was dramatically dropped, lost completely.  Those ardent eyes never wavering from direct contact—even though John felt the other man’s urge to roll them in disgusted scorn must have been nearly impossible to resist.  In the mechanical tone that John was fully aware the detective used on boring dim-witted people, he spouted his empirical evaluation that would brook no contention. “Your hair is washed, your body is pink from scrubbing, so you were therefore obviously already done cleaning.  Come.  Now.”

Surprisingly John’s anger relaxed slightly at that—the telltale signs of a new case?  His intrigue trumped his embarrassment and irritation, allowing the doctor to give his flatmate a nod of acquiescent acceptance to his request.  A pleased smile returned to the man’s mouth as Sherlock did a complete about face on the heel of his shoe and marched out of the bathroom.  The detective had still been wearing his long jacket and that blue scarf, enough for the doctor to make a few deductions of his own.  A new case, a new adventure, a new distraction seemed very emanate, and that thought hastened John’s exit from the shower despite the other man’s uncouth interruption.

He toweled off his hair and did a quick sweep of his body, before wrapping the towel about his waist and heading out into the hallway.  The flat was still dark, save the lamp still on the desk, and was still fairly quiet as well.  If not for the size of the place the detective might have been hard to find.  He wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen, which John found odd.  When he did find the other man he was even more perplexed and perturbed.

“What are we doing in my room?” John demanded, his hands balled into fists at his sides to keep them from shaking.  A peaceful evening interrupted for a game of ring around the rosy—Sherlock just might get a right hook to knock that smirk…

The quirk to the corner of his flatmates mouth wasn’t there anymore though.  The detective’s back was turned to him, his gaze slightly obscured by the angle told John that he was stoically watching something through the window that faced the main street out front.  This contrast again pricked his ears to the call of another case—that new distracting adventure that he was yearning for—making the doctor feel slightly like a yo-yo being tossed down and then just as quickly recoiling back. 

The bedroom was dark too, Sherlock’s figure in the long jacket nearly an outline splashed a little with the warm light from the streetlamps outside that hit his face and shoulders where he was pulling the curtain back.  The stock stillness with which the man erupted from at times with a contrasting leap, bound, or turn around was what the doctor expected to see, as he announced his presence with the flick of the light switch by the door.

“No, l prefer it off for now, John.” Came the other man’s reply to the action, words delivered with a steady deliberate tone that implied he was deep in thought.  There was no other movement, not even a shrug or a slight turn.  What was he watching?

John obeyed, as was his natural habit when dealing with the eccentric detective, and stalked over to the window.  Curiosity having got the better of him and it being his room, the soldier cleared the space between them in six easy strides to join his flatmate at the window.  His eyes darted from that intense gaze to the street below in an attempt to decipher what was so intriguing.  The streets below was a similar view from two windows in the living room, with a slight advantage in height.  The doctor was having a hard time seeing exactly what advantage that had at the moment, as he leaned his shoulder against the wooden jam of the long window and searched for something below that might have captivated the detective.  The street was dark and fairly active for a Friday night.  People milled back and forth below them on the sidewalk, couples arm in arm, professionals rushing, a mother and child catching a cab.  The streetlamps illuminated the busy people with their warm lit glow, offset by the few shops that were still open at this hour.  There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary.

John wasn’t sure what annoyed him more.  Sherlock’s silent locked gaze or the fact that nothing seemed amiss in the street below to his untrained eye.  The doctor let out a grating sigh of frustration.  He glanced back toward his taller flatmate, as his arms folded over his chest and weight shifted to his other foot, his shoulder pressing heavy against the jam.  From beneath those dark curls brilliant eyes darted at him from askance and John could tell that in that one tiny quick movement that the genius had been assessing.  Experience had told the doctor that the other didn’t need more than that to just about pluck the bloody thoughts from his brain. 

The eyes had left him just as quickly as they had caught his gaze and then the detective’s lips pressed into a thin line.  It was an almost restless expression, as kin too nervous as the detective might ever demonstrate.  It was something that the doctor was not familiar with on the thin features of the other man’s face.  John watched him sigh, so heavily that the fringe of curls that feel over his forehead to the right danced about his drawn brows.  Sherlock gave way from his stillness, his shoulder slouching back to rest against the jam, the taller man’s body coming to closely mirror John’s.  Eyes met and then parted, the brilliant gaze studying the street again with a false earnest. 

“So,” the doctor prompted, giving his almost sullen looking friend a warm smile that he hoped to hell hid his own confusion and irritation, “you, ugh, said that it was urgent.”

“No.” came a snapped response from his partner, as dark brows drew dangerously perturbed over the shockingly light colored eyes that flashed to him, lingering only long enough to sting before rolling slightly away.  His arms shifted, his mouth twitched between that pressed thin line to a pursed bow, before finally parting with more of an apologetic answer to his simply stated question, “I never said it was urgent, John.”

The doctor blinked blankly a couple of times in utter disbelief at the repugnant response that explicitly contradicted his interrupted shower.  With a flat palmed gesture at the detective, that very clearly demonstrated his restraint in cuffing his partner in the shoulder, John strongly began to rebuke.  “You got me out of the shower, Sherlock,” in rising temperament he waved his hand up and down his towel clad torso, sarcastically pointing out, “I’m in a towel!  What is it that was so bloody important that it couldn’t have waited ‘til I was finished?”

That quirk returned to the corner of his full lips, just enough to allow the dimple to crease ever so slightly, giving the man an almost amused look—that sent John’s pulse rocketing.  Blood was rushing inside of him, some to face, he could feel the spread of its heat about the apples of his cheeks, and some was heading south, a significant pulse in his loins proof enough.  _Shit!_ It was reflex to curse the reaction that he didn’t understand.  For all rights and purposes his brain was still agitated, irritated, focused on the sheer audacity of the impertinent bastard—genius or not he knew how to be a bloody jerk all the same!  And then why was his body reacting—he reflexively swallowed—otherwise?

As his brows knit with this perplexing problem that the doctor mulled over in his brain, he turned away from his flatmate and took a few distracted steps away from the window, moving silently without much thought towards the bed.  The heat in his cheeks only seemed to grow, as did other things lower down, and it was then that he smelt it—the chlorine from pool water, the tang of his own anxious sweat, the cigarettes and shampoo mingled in the dense dark curls…

There was the soft brush of black gloved fingers along John’s right side that startled him from his thoughts so violently that as he jumped and tried to spin around he lost his balance, one leg hitting the mattress.  In a flail of uncoordinated limbs the man fell backwards unceremoniously onto the perfectly made bed.  His wide alarmed eyes, blue with shock, were filled with the dark figure of his coat clad flatmate stepping between the part in his legs that still hung over the end of the bed to lean in over top of his sprawled torso. 

Blood rushing.  Breathing tight and fast—elevated.  Stomach clenched, draining, roiling.  A hand grappled his wrist as the thinner man rested a knee just to the outside of his left thigh and bent directly over him.  Their faces were inches apart, those brilliant intense eyes searching, roaming, evaluating.  John swallowed again, he could feel his adams apple bobbing like a buoy in rough waters, his mouth suddenly dry and his brain blurred by an embarrassed fog.  His body was alight, nerves tingling electrically on edge, and he could tell without moving or glancing that the knot in the towel had come undone, the pressure of the weight on the knee too close to his hip, pressing the gap in his only protection even wider.

The face above his own was relatively stolid.  The thick dark brows were not raised or pinched together, the eyes were not crinkled or wide but simply there, the cupids bow above the slightly parted full lips, leaning closer still.  “I didn’t say it was urgent, John.” Sherlock repeated, his voice low in tone, nearly a whisper yet somehow grating with a devious undertone that proved arousing.  His gloved fingers tightened on his wrist and from his knee along the length of his thigh he felt the fingertips of the other hand tickling a trail upwards.  “I said that I needed you.”

 


End file.
